


X

by soupypictures



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 15:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupypictures/pseuds/soupypictures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Opposites attract.</p>
            </blockquote>





	X

**Author's Note:**

> I was intrigued by the utter impossibility of this pairing and set out to make them work. I haven't decided yet for myself if it worked, but here, you can decide for yourself.

The thing is, it’s not like they’re in love or anything. They’re definitely in like, which is a difficult concept for Tim to wrap his head around. He suffers some kind of identity crisis every time they get together, wondering how this clean, purified guy could possibly want the dirty stoner. Not to mention the fact that Tim can’t make any kind of sense of his lifestyle — that straightedge thing Wilson’s got going on makes even less sense when he’s balls deep in another dude he’s not “dating,” but as long as Tim is the other dude, he forgives Wilson for the cognitive dissonance he thinks he’d have to cope with if he actually dealt with  _anything_ related to Wilson. (And he doesn’t, not even when they’re saying goodbye.)

But Tim isn’t thinking about any of that now.

Now, he feels like he’s on the mound in Atlanta — hot, sweat-slicked, suffocated, doing something he loves. He tips his head back against the pillow, eyes falling shut and fingers twisting in the sheets, focused on the source of all of that heat. Strong fingers pressing, stroking in and out, a hot mouth on him bringing him closer and closer to that cliff.

The wet heat pulls off his cock and he wants to whine for the loss, but he groans out loud instead when the fingers press deeper than ever and brush across that spot over and over. “That’s it, Tim. Just like that,” the voice is breathless, impassioned, on the edge. He can feel his skin flush further as he gasps for air.

“Please,” he whispers hoarsely, the single begging syllable full of reverence and want for release. “Please, CJ.” One more stroke, mouth descending hotly around his cock, and he comes down Wilson’s throat, back bowed and eyes squeezed tight.

Balanced somewhere between full consciousness and the velvet black of post-coital sleep, he feels Wilson moving up over his body, mouth tracking over his stomach, sternum, collarbone and throat, settling next to his ear, breath hot. Wet. “May I?”

He nods, still shaking. “Fuck yeah, go for it.” He lets Wilson flip him over and he’s almost immediately pressing in. He chokes on his own breath and tries to participate, at least a little, but he’s still boneless and can’t do much more than shove back a little and vocalize.

It doesn’t last long like this, it never does. He bites back an amused smile when Wilson ties off the condom and tosses it toward the trashcan, missing. He rolls onto his back and lets his eyes close when Wilson gets back to the bed. He lies in silence while he waits for Wilson’s guilt to manifest itself in completely unnecessary questions.

He knows Wilson’s mind is building his completion into some kind of tawdry act and it only takes three minutes for him to convey those ludicrous concerns. “Was it good for you?”

“I came, didn’t I?”

“No, I mean after.”

Tim rolls over to his side and props himself up on an elbow, looking down at the fidgeting closer. “Well, I was pretty much spent by the time you got around to that —”

“Tim —”

“You’re not using me, CJ. For the last time, I’m a completely willing participant here.”

“You don’t always seem like you’re there, though.”

Tim flinches.  _That’s because I’m trying not to get too attached._ “You ask every time though, and if I didn’t want it, I would say no. Did I say no?”

“You always say yes.”

“Because I like it, man. I like it a  _lot_.” He waits for Wilson to come up with just one more interjection, but he doesn’t, just finally meets Tim’s gaze. “If I didn’t  _want_  you to fuck me,” he says slowly, deliberately, “I wouldn’t  _let_ you fuck me.” He grins at the flush that colors Wilson’s face and chest, then feels uncomfortable despite himself.  _Too close, too close._  His mouth falls into something less than what Wilson deserves in a smile. “You ought to be getting back to your place.” It gets too real when Wilson’s like this, looking like he actually cares. And they’re supposed to be disconnecting, their departures from Arizona looming fast in less than a day.

Wilson sighs. “Is that your cue for me to gracefully excuse myself so that you can smoke up with Zito?”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Uh, I was thinking more about your need to pack, but that’s a really good idea.”

Wilson pulls away, finds a pillow, and tucks it under his head. “You shouldn't smoke on the balcony, not when everyone and their infield is four steps away from you.”

Though it’s excellent advice, Tim feels a flash of annoyance spurring through him. “I’m not an idiot, Siege.” Every time the conversation takes this turn, Tim has an idea where it’s going. He doesn’t want to face that, so he shuts it down. “And also, I don’t want to get into this with you right now.”

“You  _never_ want to talk about this and I’ve  _told_ you — I don’t care if you smoke.”

“See, there’s a problem with that statement, and it’s that you totally do care, you only say it to make me feel better and to cover up your judgy assholeness.” Tim feels a lump forming in his stomach and has an absurd thought —  _pregnancy_  — before he allows himself to recognize it as disappointment in himself. He alarms himself with the thought that he’d totally rather be having Wilson’s baby than be dealing with this disappointment.

“For the last goddamn time, I’m not  _judging_  you.”

Tim pushes himself up and slides off the bed, wishing he had the balls to duke this one out for real. Tell Wilson, “I am just as good as you, no, better, and you can’t look at me like that, you can’t think I’m less, just because. Just because.” Instead, as he makes his way to the bathroom to clean up, he throws over his shoulder, “And for the last goddamn time, I really don’t believe you.” He’s sick to his stomach.

“What do I have to say for you to understand this?”

“Nothing you say is ever going to convince me!” Tim yells back, telling himself the volume is so that he can be heard over the water now running in the shower, but truthfully, at least half of the reason is because he’s never been so frustrated about any situation in his entire life.  _Why can’t I just let us be?_

“Then what are we  _doing_ here?”

Tim steps into the shower to get away from the question he can’t find it within himself to answer. What indeed.

\---

His shower is quick, perfunctory. When he makes his way back into the bedroom he feels his heart drop at Wilson’s absence. Despite his best efforts to demonstrate the contrary, he doesn’t actually want to go back to San Francisco angry. But Wilson’s bag is still there by the door, always-present compression sleeve resting on top, both abandoned when their hands had begun more entertaining endeavors.

He grabs a can of warm beer from the stash Zito had brought over a few nights before. He drains half of it before he dresses himself in clean clothes from the dresser. Tim winces in anticipation of the conversation he’s about to have and he knows that he’s using the alcohol, as little of it as he’s consumed, as a firewall. He’s the virus and Wilson’s the harddrive.

Tim slides open the balcony door and steps out into the dusk air that’s rapidly cooling after a hot, dry day. Wilson is there, leaning on the balcony rail and gazing out toward the horizon. Tim wishes he knew how to take pictures with fancy cameras; this frame would be a keeper, Wilson backlit by the setting Phoenix sun and almost glowing. He takes a swig from the can, poisoning his mouth. He’s trying to sabotage this thing before Wilson can end it himself.

“You know why I have such an issue with this.”

It’s a statement, and a true one at that. “Yeah,” Tim sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

“You know that it’s you that’s … that’s keeping me from going all-in.”

Tim aches, wishing he would have thought to brace himself against the verbal blow. But he forces himself to keep staring at Wilson’s profile. “Yeah, I know,” he repeats softly.

“You can’t just … be. You can’t accept who I am.”

Tim blinks. “Wait, what?”

Wilson rolls his eyes and finally turns toward Tim. “I’ve tried everything. Fuck, not twenty minutes ago I let you come in my mouth. What about that says ‘this is just for fun’? I don’t know what you want out of me. If it’s just a fling for you, I can’t do this anymore.” He can see Wilson searching for more words. “I don’t think you’re any less because of your choices. I don’t know if I love you, but I don’t think that matters yet.”

Tim brings the can to his mouth and drains the rest of the beer. Tim tries to add a defiant glint to his eyes, but he knows he probably just looks like he’s going to cry. That’s the truth. He never saw any of this coming.

Wilson sets his jaw and steps forward, sliding his hand behind Tim’s neck, fingers slipping through wet hair. Tim can’t breathe for a second, thinking, _we’ve never done this._  Wilson is close, no doubt he can smell the alcohol, even. Then he’s slanting his mouth across Tim’s, the unmistakable taste of beer fresh and present and now in Wilson’s. Tim tries to pull away, making protesting sounds in the back of his throat, trying to save Wilson from this, but Wilson has him locked in and Tim’s not trying very hard anyway. This is too much of what he’s been wanting. He drops the can so he can get his arms around Wilson’s shoulders and pull him even closer.

It isn’t until the only thing Tim tastes is  _Wilson_ that Wilson’s pulling away, incrementally putting space between them. Tim tries to say something, but Wilson is shaking his head and swiping his thumb over Tim’s mouth.

“Do you get it now?”

Tim nods and pulls Wilson back in, slipping his hands in the back pockets of Wilson’s jeans. “Since, uh, we have that settled, did you look at our schedules? Because even though you play Oakland like ten times away, we’re never in town when you are. I even looked at New York and Chicago and nada.”

“Well, they try to keep alternating schedules as much as possible to limit traffic and, I dunno, cross-pollination?”

“No one goes to A’s games, that is such bullshit. Even if we’re out of town, that would not increase attendance in Oakland. Also, I don’t think it’s called cross-pollination.”

“Then we’ll see each other again in October.”

“Don’t jinx it!”

“I’m not jinxing it. October, regardless.” The word sounds like a promise. Wilson is good at promises.

“October it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> And then, of course, it would be difficult to imagine a Tim Lincecum who understands edge. Therefore, do not take any of this to be any kind of true depiction of the straightedge philosophy.


End file.
